Beginning
by whatthegreencarrot
Summary: I didn't want to be a tribute, not really. But the scary thing was, I didn't not want to be a tribute. It was the first Hunger Games, and I found myself stuck in the midst of it, accompanied by a very attractive boy under the name of Devin Hollister. And what did the world decide to call me? The girl with no soul. And I couldn't deny it, either.
1. Chapter 1

Today is the reaping.

President Snow of Panem has announced that there will be a new show that will be televised. The Hunger Games, he calls it. He says that all of our Districts, 1 through 12, must submit all of their children from ages twelve to eighteen to the reaping. The reaping will tell us which two children in our district—one boy and one girl—will be going to the Games.

The whole of District 4 is in a fuss, with mothers and aunts running around, trying to get their children tidied up. I can't see the point of it all, since whoever gets chosen will probably be dead in a matter of weeks.

I hear my name being called, but I don't bother turning around. Like I said, I have no intention of being "tidied up."

"Joleyn!" my mother shouts again. "Get in the house, now!"

Irritated, I twist around to see the livid face of my mother. They say that she was a beauty back in her time, but I can't see where that came from. From this point of view, she looks like a toad. "Yes, Mother?"

She scowls haughtily at me, her blond hair in an uptight bun. "The reaping is today, girl! How many times have I told you, you have to look presentable!"

My face remains impassive, as it has been for all my life. People have told me that when I was a baby, I never shed a single tear. "I don't see the point, as I'll be dead in less than a month if I am picked."

"You have to look presentable once you reach the Capitol," she says primly, then yanks me by the hair. She keeps a tight grip on me as she drags me towards our house. It's a modest building, made of rough plaster and leftover paint. This is the place that I hate the most.

It's where I was born.

My mother throws a white dress on my bed and starts running the bath. I pick up the dress gingerly with two fingers, looking at it in distaste. Not my style at all. It has a square neckline, and it's made of clingy material. I don't know where my mother got this, but I feel a twinge of regret for the money wasted on it. This could have been a week of food.

Four hours later, I look nothing like myself. My dark brown hair is up in an intricate braided bun, my eyes are lined with a waterproof black substance, and the dress is absolutely hideous. I look at my mother, my face still expressionless, but a deaf person could hear the sarcasm in my voice from a mile away. "Thanks so much, dearest mother."

Her lips thin as she presses them together, but she just nods stiffly and ushers me out the door. "I hope—well, good luck," she says to me, a faint emotion that isn't anger glimmering in her eyes. I'm surprised by it. The only emotion she ever has when she's around me is fury.

Perhaps she isn't as bad as I originally thought.

"Well?" my mother snaps. "Get on with it! You'll be late for the reaping!"

On second thought, maybe she is quite as bad as I originally thought.

I sigh and walk confidently towards the plaza. I know that I'm the odd girl in the district, because I fear water. District 4's duty is to fish, and it's mandatory for all children to learn how to swim for fish. I never learned, because the instructors couldn't get me into the water. Since then, I've been known as the oddball.

My eyes calmly scan the plaza full of fidgeting children and teenagers. I'm not late yet, but I'm not early, either. I suppose I classify as "just on time."

The woman sent from the Capitol introduces herself as Esme, then starts babbling about the rules of the Hunger Games. She finishes with an, "And may the odds be ever in your favor! Welcome to the very first Annual Hunger Games!"

I look at her with barely masked disgust, which is probably the most expression I've used in a long time. How can she look so pleased when she's sending children to their deaths? The Capitol really does have monsters for residents.

"Ladies first," Esme proclaims, smiling widely. I can see that she's been worked on by surgeons, because her smile is stretched tightly over her teeth. She looks about thirty, but I'm guessing that she's really in her early forties.

The name that rings out doesn't make me weep, but it doesn't make me happy, either. I'm expressionless, as always.

"Joleyn Laychin!" she calls out after a long silence, probably for suspense.

I shrug and walk up to the plaza, feeling almost bored. Like I'd told my mother, there was really no point for me to dress up, since I'd be dead in less than three weeks. I felt a little bit irritated, since I'd gone through that torturous ordeal for nothing.

Esme hands me the microphone in her hand. I take it and look at her impassively. "Yes?"

"Well, introduce yourself!" she says, her cheerfulness almost disgusting. I shoot her a despising look—she called my name out less than a minute ago, for heaven's sake. There's no point in introductions.

After a minute, I sigh in exasperation and take the microphone, saying into it coolly, "Joleyn Laychin, District 4." I hand Esme back the microphone and cross my arms indifferently.

For a moment, Esme looks stunned, then she regains her composure. "Erm—boys next, then." She reaches her hand into the sphere full of names. Coming up with a scrap of white paper. "Devin Hollister," she reads off.

My eyes connect with a tall, leanly muscled boy with bronze hair and gray eyes. Those storm-colored eyes are filled with panic at the moment. And even though I have only talked to him once, I feel a faint glimmer of dread rising up in my stomach.

He slowly walks up to Esme and I, and a load of girls burst into tears. A wry smile tugs at the ends of my lips; Devin is well-known to be the most desired boy of our school. The sobbing girls in the plaza are an obvious giveaway for that.

"Introduce yourself!" Esme sings, shoving the microphone into his tan hands. "Name, district, and age." She looks pointedly at me, and I roll my eyes, grabbing the mike from Devin's hands.

"Joleyn Laychin, District 4, age fourteen," I snap into the microphone, then throw it back at Devin, scowling. He catches it out of the air with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

He speaks into the microphone in his low, slightly husky voice. "Devin Hollister, District 4, age sixteen." Devin hands Esme the microphone again, and I see that his hands are shaking a bit. Understandable, seeing as we're practically walking into our own deaths.

Esme claps her hands together, the picture-perfect image of an ecstatic child. "Excellent! Happy Hunger Games, everyone!" She smiles widely at the cameras pointing at us. "And again, may the odds be ever in your favor."

I smirk slightly. As if. Our odds were one out of twenty-four. If I get out of that arena alive, it will be a miracle.

* * *

Devin takes a slightly shaky breath in, then sets his wine goblet down on the table. It's dinnertime, and the nerves seem to be getting to Devin. Pity, I'd thought that he would hold up fairly well.

I concentrate on eating as much as I can; I hate wasting food, and I'm sure that the leftovers from this huge meal will go straight to the dump. The Capitol's strong points don't include preservation of food. No time to worry about Devin when there's food to inhale.

Esme, to my disgust, is eating with us, along with our mentor, Jay Meadlark. Jay is well-tanned, as is the majority of District 4. He has flaxen hair and light brown eyes, and his build is tall and stocky. He nods coolly at Devin and I, then gets up with his empty plate. I hear the clatter of the plate against the steel of the sink, then Jay's heavy footsteps fading away as he walks to his room.

For some reason, my eyes go right back to Devin, and I see that he's staring unashamedly at me. I raise a single eyebrow at him, then go back to shoveling food into my mouth. His gaze drops down to his plate, and I feel somewhat satisfied. I stand up and excuse myself, dropping my plate into the sink. Then I start walking down the hallway to my room.

The room that the Capitol provided me is much too girlish for my liking, full of pinks and pastels. But the bed's comfortable, which is more than I can say for my bed back home. I find myself almost enjoying life in this place, which is next to impossible. Joleyn Laychin never enjoys things.

This is what begins to worry me. Not that I'll be dead in approximately two and a half weeks, but that my composure will slip. I don't feel anything but disdain and dislike, and I want to keep it that way.

People think it's a waste that I don't have any emotions for anyone. I think it's what they deserve. For mocking my phobia of water, and for calling me an oddity behind my back. After all, they can't expect respect from me if they grace me with none.

I hear a knock on the door. It's not the timid knock of Esme's, nor is it the heavy knock of Jay's. It's Devin's, I think, although he has never bothered socializing with me, much less knocking on my door.

"Come in, Devin," I say. "The door's unlocked."

My door silently opens, and I see a surprised-looking Devin at the door. I raise an eyebrow at him, wondering why he has finally decided to talk to me.

As I had said before, Devin Hollister has only bothered speaking to me once in my life. We had been in school, and it'd been Gym class. We'd been on the same team for a game, and he'd said to me, "You have pretty eyes."

He never spoke to me again.

"How did you know it was me?" he says, eyebrows creasing together.

I shrug nonchalantly. "Your knock. Jay knocks harder, and Esme knocks so lightly that half the time I don't hear her. There are four people in this building: you, me, Jay, and Esme. Since I wouldn't be knocking on my own door, I _somehow_ narrowed it down to you."

His eyes narrow when he hears the sarcasm in the last sentence. Devin Hollister dislikes being made fun of, I know that much about him. It's funny, really, because the two of us are probably the most powerful figures in our school, save for the teachers and the occasional Peacekeeper. Devin's wish is his command, and although I'm considered an oddball, people fear and respect me.

"So," I say calmly. "What brings you here?"

He frowns slightly at me. "What, so I can't just come around for a friendly visit to the only other tribute from my district?"

I have an odd impulse to laugh at this, but I don't. Instead I tell him how ridiculous that statement is. "No, because we'll be trying to rip each other's throats out in a matter of days. It won't matter what district we're in. We'll be fighting to kill, anyway."

Devin's facial features harden a bit. I cock my head to the side, wondering why he looks so annoyed with me. The truth is the truth—you can't deny what I said was fact. "Maybe, but we should cooperate for the interview."

"Interview? What interview?" I say, allowing a frown to cross my face. Apparently the speech that Esme had given at the beginning of the reaping actually had some information in it, even though it'd sounded like a load of rubbish to me.

Devin shoots me a somewhat incredulous look. I just shrug at him; my listening skills are not exactly famous. "The interview, Joleyn. With Caesar Flickerman. It's key for sponsors, along with the chariot ride for the opening ceremonies. Weren't you listening?"

I stare at him. "Devin," I say slowly, as if talking to a dumb child, "since when have I ever listened to anyone?"

"Point made," he concedes, making a face. "Don't forget the opening ceremony, we have a chariot ride to carry out. But," his gray eyes probe mine, "I didn't come to warn you about that. I want you to help me out."

This is something of a surprise. Most people don't ask for my help; they're either too scared or doubtful of my abilities. Since it doesn't happen much, I'm all ears. I nod at him to continue, my interest sparked.

"You've got a perfect poker face," he says to me. Nothing that I don't already know. "In the interviews with Caesar Flickerman, he's going to ask questions about my personal life. I don't want the Gamemakers to know anything about me, I don't want those slimy Capitol people to know about me. I need you to teach me how to lie."

I tilt my head to the side, trying to get a read on him. He genuinely wants my help—I can see that much—but I can't see why he doesn't want to share his personal information. If he's got a tragic story up his sleeve, that could get him sponsors. "You know how to lie." My gaze is cool, assessing.

"Yes," he says, looking slightly frustrated, "but not as well as you."

A smile spreads across my face for the first time in years, a real one. It twists into a smirk, and I reply with a simple, "Nobody lies as well as me."

Devin inclines his head, not denying it. Because it's true; if I'd murdered someone, and the evidence all pointed to me, I'd be able to lie my way out. "Touché. So will you help me or not?"

I look at him for a moment, my eyes unashamedly sweeping across his well-built body. He's as tanned as the rest of my district, due to the swimming and fishing done every day. His body is toned but lean, and his face—well, his face looks like it's been carved by a sculptor from the Capitol. I have no doubt that he will have sponsors, whether he tells the truth about himself or not. So I make up my mind.

"Of course," I say quietly. But it's not the fact that he'll have sponsors streaming left and right for him that makes me say yes. It's that encounter from years ago . . . the one when he'd said that my eyes were pretty.


	2. Chapter 2

Esme introduces us to our prep teams and stylists, and I'm immediately shocked by the colors. For a moment I think that my retinas have burned off, then realize that it's just the fact that one of the people from my prep team has neon orange skin. The things that people in the Capitol do to beautify themselves . . . and they usually just come out looking like freak shows.

Devin and I exchange looks. His is nervous, mine is slightly skeptical. I strongly doubt that our prep teams will do us much good if they look as bad as they do now.

"Well!" Esme claps her hands together, smiling her false smile. "I'll leave you two to your prep teams and stylists, then! Have fun, and make sure you're polite!"

I raise a disdainful eyebrow at her and look my stylist over. He's in his mid-twenties, I think, with stylishly messy brown hair (looks like he came right out of bed) and black eyes. I wonder if the eyes are his natural color, or if they're contact lenses. "I'm Joleyn." I hold my hand out for him to shake, somewhat reluctantly. He takes it. His grasp is cool, firm.

"Jonas." Those black eyes sweep over me, assessing me. He gives an almost imperceptible nod and motions for me to follow him. The prep team comes along, too. I shoot a glance at Devin before following my stylist, Jonas, and see that Devin is chatting amiably enough with his own stylist. He flashes me a tentative smile. I don't give him one in return.

"So, Joleyn," Jonas says, turning his jet black gaze to me. "District 4. You must be an excellent swimmer."

Whatever good feelings—or rather, indifferent feelings—remaining for Jonas vanish. He seems to like picking fun at me; I know that stylists are given files on their tribute assignments before the Games start. Jonas knows already that I have a fear of water.

I decide to humor him, although my patience is thin. "No. I dislike swimming immensely."

"Really," he says, his black eyes seeming to pierce into my soul. I wish that I had been assigned a different stylist; this one seems almost dangerous. "That's a pity. I'll leave you to the prep team, and I'll be back in" —he checks his watch— "about an hour and a half's time."

He walks away, and I find myself being surrounded by the five members of my prep team. The orange-skinned one smiles at me, but I'm not reassured. "Better get started with you," she says, grinning widely.

I'm not sure, but I think that feeling at the pit of my stomach is nervousness.

* * *

The outfit that Jonas has designed for me is as fancy as I feared.

It's a floor-length, silvery-blue gown that falls down to my feet like sheets of water. The material is thin and delicate, and I'm sure that it will rip if I step on it. I decide to scowl, just to ruin the effect of the dress and to annoy Jonas.

Jonas gives me a sideways glance and says, "Don't scowl. Nobody will want to sponsor you if you keep that attitude—and that expression—up. I'd suggest that you cozy up with your tribute friend—Devin, isn't it? He looks like he could pull his fair share of sponsors, and sponsors are key near the end of the games. Make sure not to antagonize any of the other Careers before you get into the arena. Now get in the chariot and smile, wave, blow kisses . . . whatever gets you on the good side of the audience. Oh, and here." He hands me a silver tiara embedded with sapphires. "Don't destroy it, that thing is expensive."

I stare at him, not taking the tiara yet. "Why are you helping me?"

His expression is one of—is that pity? It never crossed my mind that Jonas could be capable of pity. "I know how it is, being neglected. My parents didn't pay much attention to me, either. And you _are_ my tribute, so my money's going to be on the table for you. I'm placing my bets on you, so you'd better win."

At this, I give the faintest of smirks. "I'll make sure I lose."

"Cocky," sighs Jonas. "I was afraid I'd get one like you." He helps me onto the chariot, where Devin is already waiting for me. I nod cordially at Jonas as our chariot begins to leave the stand. "Good luck, Joleyn."

"Thanks," I say, then look at Devin. He's staring at me expressionlessly, not saying a word. I feel slightly awkward with his piercing stare boring into me. "This is your strong point, Devin. You'll need to tell me what to do."

He tips his head to the side, strands of bronze hair falling out of his tanned face. His gray eyes bore into me. "Smile. Wave. Don't scowl," he adds, seeing me beginning to scowl at the thought of smiling. "Nobody likes a scowler."

"Gee, thanks," I say dryly, while wondering how I'll possibly smile at the audience. Joleyn Laychin doesn't smile. That's perfectly ridiculous—I'm next to incapable of any sentimental activity. "Remind me how to smile?"

The look that Devin flashes me is incredulous, and I roll my eyes at him. "I'm kidding, Devin . . . sort of. I think I should be able to remember how to smile. It's only been a couple of . . ." I pause. When was the last time I smiled?

"I saw you smile two days ago," says Devin, frowning. "It can't be that bad. Besides, didn't you smile that time that I told you . . ."

I almost smile then and there. "The time that you told me that I had pretty eyes?" I say quietly, my mind flashing back to that day. I had been twelve, and he fourteen. He'd flashed the statement at me, then dove for the ball during Gym. And I had indeed smiled, for the shortest of moments.

"I still stand by that statement," he says, grinning slightly at me. Our chariot wheeled around, and I find myself facing thousands of Capitol people. Devin and I wave wildly, and I even manage to crack a smile. It seems that Devin makes me smile, for some strange reason.

Whether that's an asset or a holdback, I've yet to figure out.

* * *

Someone raps on my door. I can tell it's Devin, once again, and I tell him to come in. The door, once again, is unlocked.

"Just come in next time," I say, slightly impatient. "I don't do anything in here that I need to keep secret from you, so you might as well just open the door."

Devin flushes a little bit, and mumbles something about me being a girl and him being a boy, and that he doesn't want to catch me at an "awkward" time. A smirk makes its way up to my lips.

"Anyway. So you're here because . . . ?" I let the question trail off, and I look at him with a raised eyebrow.

His cheeks redden, and he says, "Well, you did say that you'd help me out on my lying skills and all, so I figured that now would be an acceptable time for that . . . if that's okay with you?" he tacks on at the end, looking up at me from underneath his eyelashes.

The ghost of a smile appears on my lips, and I nod. Lying is what I do best, and everybody knows it. "That sounds fine. Er—sit down, if you want. Okay, tell me about your family, but lie." I cross my ankles at look at him attentively.

"Okay, um . . ." Devin thinks quickly then says, "I've got seven brothers and sisters, all younger than me. My mom is dead and my dad works on the rafts." The rafts are part of our fishing community. People who work on them scout for good fishing spots, then alert the fishermen on the boats where the fishing spots are.

After a moment of looking hard at him, I say, "You were trying too hard to look me straight in the eye. People always tell you that eye contact is key in lying, but that's not the actual case. If you look too hard, that's a dead giveaway that you're lying. So maintain eye contact, but don't actually try so hard. It should come naturally. And your hands are clenched too tight." I nod at his hands, which are clenched tightly. His knuckles are white, a startling contrast against his deeply tanned skin. "But otherwise, you're actually not that bad. Make your sentences seem natural, like you've been telling people this for all your life. That's really all there is to lying."

Devin nods at me. He looks like he's really concentrating; whatever he's got to hide seems like it's important. "Okay, I think I got it."

"Good. Now, tell me about your family again, and lie." I look at him and give him my full attention yet again. And after hours of practice and talking, we fall asleep, curling up next to each other on my bed. The last conscious thought that strikes me before I fall asleep is that I'm going to have a hard time when I lose this boy in the Hunger Games.

* * *

The day of the interviews with Caesar Flickerman comes too soon. Both Devin and I work tirelessly on our weaknesses—his lying and my social skills. We correct each other, do last-minute quizzing, the works. But our interviews come swiftly, and I can't help but feel extremely nervous.

They call my name, and I go up front to Caesar Flickerman. I feel a flicker of panic building in my stomach, but I squash it down, as I do with just about every other emotion. Caesar smiles at me, and I hide my shock at his appearance. His lips and hair are dyed a striking burgundy color, and it looks like he's bleeding. Who would want to look like that?

I sit down on the couch facing Caesar and cross my legs, forcing my lips to turn up at the corners.

"Joleyn Laychin," he says, his red lips spreading over his white teeth. "Wonderful to see you. You're a pretty young lady, aren't you? District 4? I suppose you live swimming, then?"

It's all that I can do to not scowl at him. I smile tightly at him. "Not at all. I don't find swimming enjoyable, as shocking as that sounds."

He seems genuinely surprised, so I assume that he hasn't read my file yet. No matter, since he's supposed to dig out all of my deepest secrets in these three minutes of life. To his credit, Caesar recovers in mere seconds. "I see. Do you have any family?"

The answer comes easily to my lips. "Yes. My mother."

Caesar looks relieved to have found something to speak about. "I bet you love her very much, huh? I know that I really loved my mom when I was your age."

I smile sweetly at him; Devin has taught me how to smile at will. "Then it seems that you and I have many differences, Mister Flickerman. I have no love for my family or district." My smile turns into a sneer, and I can see Jay burying his face in his hands. A smirk tugs at my lips, and I see Caesar's stunned expression. "Continue your questions, please."

Caesar's mouth opens, then closes. He quickly regains his composure and smiles again, his lips flashing a bright crimson. "Got any boy back home waiting for you?"

"No," I say lightly, resting my chin on my palm. "Not at all."

He's clearly grasping at straws now. "Erm—alright. And your fellow District 4 tribute—quite a looker, isn't he? Fancy him much?"

I smile faintly, pondering this thought. "I won't deny that he's not lacking in the looks department," I say slowly, then see my amused face on screens all over the building. I wink lightly and see my magnified face doing the same. "But I don't think that fancying him would get me anywhere. So no. Not interested."

"That's a disappointment," says Caesar. "And Joleyn—do you plan to come out of the Hunger Games? Think you'll be the first victor?"

I tip my head to the side thoughtfully, my dark, glitter-sprinkled curls falling out of my face. "Mm, no. Not really. I've seen the tributes from the other districts—and some of the men are fine stuff" —I smirk— "so frankly, I think my chances are slim. I'm just enjoying the food while I can." I spread my arms out and smirk.

"You find it bearable to joke about your upcoming death?" says Caesar. He looks actually interested, as if he can't find out why I'm so indifferent about my death.

I lean forward slightly and smile at me. On the enlarged screens, I see that the smile is almost feral. "Oh, it's bearable. I don't care. Live or die, I'll always be an antagonist." My smile widens a little when I see Jonas holding in his laughter on the box full of the officials and stylists. "Besides, I've never seen the point of my existence. So thank you, Capitol." I wave easily at the audience, who are dead silent. The buzzer for three minutes goes off, and a very confused-looking Caesar ushers me back to where the other tributes are waiting. Devin looks rather sad after my interview, but he gives me a quick peck on the cheek before walking off to Caesar and the couch. I look up and see that the audience saw the whole kiss-on-the-cheek thing. Smiling knowingly, I see that my face is still on the screens. Then Devin's face comes up, and his interview starts.

* * *

"Look at what they've dubbed you," says Devin, rubbing his eyes from fatigue. He points at the overlarge television, looking absolutely exhausted.

I walk over and seat myself beside him on the large sofa. "What, I have a nickname now?"

"Yeah," yawns Devin. I see the purplish-blue circles underneath his gray eyes. "Watch it, you'll hear it—"

"The girl with no soul," comes from the TV, and I raise an eyebrow at Devin. He shrugs, already half-asleep. It's two in the morning, but my eyes are still wide open. I've always been known as an insomniac.

I look at his tired form, and I sigh. "Go to bed, Devin," I say. "You look dead on your feet, and I have no doubt that you are."

"No, I'm not," he argues, his voice muffled by his arm, which is slung across his face. I just shake my head and pull him off of the sofa. He's heavier than I thought he'd be, and I grunt under his weight. Devin's eyes fly open, and he turns his face to me. "Put me down, I'm going to break your back. I'm not light."

"I noticed," I say as I lug him towards his bedroom. "Jay!" I shout. "Help me with this hunk of fat, he must be equivalent to the weight of a baby whale."

Devin grunts, not denying it.

Jay opens the door and looks at me incredulously. "You can carry him?" he says, looking surprised. I shrug; since I can't swim, I lug the nets full of fish to the factories. I'm used to heavy things.

Just not quite as heavy as Devin is.

Making a face, Jay takes Devin from me and kicks the door to Devin's room open. The distinct thump in his room leads me to believe that Jay has thrown Devin on the bed. The man has good aim, I'll give him that much.

Shaking my head in amusement, I open the door to my room and collapse onto my bed. I turn the lights off, but lie awake for several hours more. It always takes me ages to fall asleep, no matter how late it is. But I finally give in to the blackness of sleep at five in the morning.

* * *

"Get up, we're doing training today," Devin's voice cuts into my dreams. I open a single eye and scowl at him.

Checking the time, I groan. "Seven o'clock? Dev, I fell asleep at five. You could try cutting me some slack, even I can't survive on two hours of sleep. At least you got six hours."

"Sorry," he says apologetically. "Jay told me to get you up. He didn't tell me when you fell asleep. But still, today we have to go to the training arena and meet all of the other tributes. We should be able to get our fair share of allies, you're pretty fast, and I can give a fair punch. I'm also alright with a knife."

Something in his statement bothers me. "'We'?" I ask him, frowning. "Don't you mean 'me' or 'you'?"

Devin rolls his eyes. "We're obviously going to be allies, Joleyn. What did you expect, for me to throw you to the dogs?" Actually, I was expecting something along those lines. "I'm not that bad, Jo. We're friends, so we should be allies. Obviously."

Wait. We're friends?

The world must be ending. Joleyn Laychin doesn't make friends.

"Hurry up!" Devin urges me, throwing the covers off of me. He grabs a pair of leggings and a white shirt from my wardrobe and throws it at me. "Get dressed, I'll be at the breakfast table. See you in ten." Dashing out the door, he waves as he makes his exit.

I laugh at his antics and shut the door behind him. Pulling on the outfit that Devin had thrown at me, I brush my teeth and brush my dark hair. It's straightened out from last night, when Jonas and my prep team had curled it for the interviews. Most of the golden glitter has washed out by now, and that's a relief.

I look at my face in the mirror. I'm not bad looking, I know. My skin is tanned and flawless, like the rest of the District 4 population. I'm a straight-haired brunette—nothing special. The only feature that stands out for me are my eyes. They're tawny, with hints of orange. I've always liked my eyes, and Devin apparently likes them too.

I'm fairly average, with a slender five-foot-six build, but somehow I manage to attract loads of attention at school. Maybe it's the fact that I never slouch . . . or maybe it's because I don't really care about anything in particular. But either way, I receive attention, and it doesn't bother me.

Devin knocks on the door again, startling me out of my reverie. "Joleyn! Hurry up, we haven't got all day," he calls in a singsong voice. "Joleyn . . ."

I push the door open, bumping into him. "I'm done, I'm done, you pestering little bug," I say, rolling my eyes lightly at him. He just grins in response, and we walk towards the breakfast table. Every inch that the wooden table has to spare is filled with plates and food, but I'm long used to this, so I don't bother to marvel at the huge expanse of food stretched before me.

I lump a bunch of scrambled eggs and bacon on my plate, while Devin takes a spoonful of every dish. He ends up with seven plates, and starts gorging himself the moment that he finishes putting everything on.

"Pig," I comment idly as I watch him throw spoonfuls and forkfuls of breakfast foods into his mouth. "I don't know how you're not five hundred pounds yet."

"I'm a hundred and forty-five," he says through a mouthful of food. It comes out like "Ah uh huh-ed an fo-ee fahve."

Not that bad, actually. I've seen people attempt to say similar stuff, and the outcome is usually not as pretty as Devin's.

Jay finishes first, as always, and stands up from the table. He starts pacing as we eat. "Okay," he says. "I've never been in the Hunger Games before, as you guys know." I resist the urge to say "duh" to him; this is the first Annual Hunger Games, of course he hasn't been in it before. "But the Gamemakers gave me a pretty good idea of what's going to happen. There's a giant basket-like thing called the Cornucopia, shaped like a horn, and that's where all the goods and weapons will be at the beginning of the games. I think both of you are strong and fast enough to grab some stuff from there when the gong sounds, but it's all up to you. The Cornucopia is going to be a bloodbath, okay? So make as many allies as you can today, and you'll come out alive. Now get to practice. Esme will show you there."

I make it a point to ignore Esme on the way down the elevator. She babbles on about trinkets and ribbons nevertheless, and Devin and I exchange tortured looks. Finally, I snap and say, "Esme, neither of us care about baubles or ribbons, so can you just be—quiet?"

She shuts her mouth, looking hurt. I feel slightly relieved by the silence, but Devin starts fidgeting uncomfortably to the point of me losing my cool. "What?" I snap, looking at him.

"Huh?" he says cluelessly, being the dense male character that he is.

I grit my teeth and calm down a little, telling myself that he's my friend and that he's not actually that irritating when he fidgets. It doesn't entirely work. "Why are you so . . . twitchy?"

Devin ruffles his already messy hair with one hand. "Reflex?" he suggests weakly, smiling halfheartedly at me. "I'm nervous, Jo. Cut me some slack. I mean, did you see the guy from District 2, the one named Cedric? He's going to be either a great ally or a vicious competitor."

Cedric. I remember him from the interviews with Caesar Flickerman. He's tall, about six feet, with short bleach-blond hair and a well-toned body. He definitely doesn't need help in the looks department, and I'm sure that he won't need help when it comes to the fighting department. All in all, he'll be a sponsor magnet.

I nod tersely in agreement. "So we'll get him as an ally. We're in the Career districts too." From what I'd learned, the Career districts consisted of Districts 1, 2, and 4. The occasional tribute from another district. Of course, we'd never had a Hunger Games before this, but the Capitol knew which district could hold up in a fight.

"You realize that the Career districts do the main of the killing?" Devin notes dryly, giving me a bitter half-smile.

I smirk right back at him, with a quick shrug of my shoulders. "Killing shouldn't be hard. We kill fish on a daily basis, or hadn't you forgotten? Besides," I say coolly, "it should be an easy activity for a girl with no soul."

The elevator door dings and opens. I walk straight out, hearing Devin's quick footsteps behind me. He calls my name.

"Joleyn!" he shouts. "Hey, hold up!" His footsteps slow when I stop walking, and he's by my side before I know it. "Look, Jo, I'm sorry about that. You have a soul, I know you do. And I know it's messed up, but you're my best friend."

I look up at him disinterestedly, although my stomach flips when he says that. And here I was, thinking that I was incapable of making friends. "Maybe you're wrong, Devin. Maybe I don't have a soul. I wouldn't know, but it wouldn't surprise me if I didn't." I stalk off, leaving him with a shocked expression on his face. I don't understand why he's making such a big deal out of it; I'm not the type to hold grudges.

. . . Right, I might forgive someone who offends me after a year of ignoring them.

I walk into the training center, and find that most of the tributes are already there. Their eyes assess me carefully, but I'm not bothered by it. I'm an athletic girl, and from what I hear, I'm not lacking when it comes to looks. Devin comes in several seconds after me. By then, I've already invited myself over to the Career group. If it's not already obvious, I'm not lacking confidence, either.

Devins sits himself next to me, and I give him a half-smile to show that I'm not actually angry with him. Might as well make nice with my only friend, since I'll be long gone in a couple of weeks. "Hey," I say quietly before a tall, buff, middle-aged man starts speaking. He tells us where all the stations are, pointing to each of them in turn, then ushers us off.

I immediately turn to talk to the other Careers. "Joleyn Laychin," I say, holding out my hand to the Cedric boy and smiling slightly. He takes it and shakes my hand. His grip is strong, which I admire. This isn't any weakling pretty boy.

"Devin Hollister," Devin states firmly, holding out his hand to Cedric once I'm finished. Cedric's smile widens, and they shake.

The girl from District 1 smiles radiantly at me and sticks her beautifully manicured hand out to me. "Pearl Johnston. Nice to meet you."

I shake her hand with mine, which is almost the exact carbon copy of hers, minus the nail polish. Funny, I never thought that my hands would be anything like someone from District 1's. They never have to do anything close to labor.

"Knight Meadowson, District 1." I see a large, tanned hand come inside my vision. I look up and see a brown haired boy with dazzlingly white teeth, which are focused on smiling at me right now. "You're Joleyn Laychin, right? Girl with no soul?"

I grin widely at him. Now here's a boy who isn't afraid to speak his mind. I decide that I like Knight Meadowson a lot. "The one and only. Nice meeting you." We shake hands.

"Alis Prangler," comes a voice to my right. I twist around and see a thin, pixie-like girl with spiky black hair and piercing hazel eyes. "District 2." Her small, heart shaped face breaks out into a smile. "It'll be good to have you as an ally."

"Likewise," I say, smiling wryly. "How old're you?" She's short enough to be an eleven year old, but her clever eyes and defined cheekbones tell me that she's older than that.

"Fifteen," she says, beaming brightly. "I know that I don't look it—my whole family's full of midgets—but I really am. And you're what, sixteen?"

"Fourteen," I correct her, feeling somewhat flattered that she thought I could pass as a sixteen year old. "You're looking for Devin if you want a sixteen year old."

Her hazel gaze turns to Devin, and I feel a brief flash of indignation, although it passes quickly. She has no right to have her designs on him, especially if she'd kill him the moment we were in the arena (at least, I know she would if he weren't a Career). "Do you fancy him?" she asks, catching me off-guard.

I look at her in surprise. "No, not really. He's my friend, that's all. Why, are you interested?" I say indifferently. I can feel his gray eyes burning a hole in my back.

"Mm, no, I like my boys the same age as me. And I don't like it when they're at least a foot taller than me, so he's basically crossed out of my 'will date' list and put in my 'friends only' list." She smiles widely and drags me over to the other Careers, who are watching us talk with amusement. "Cedric," she says in a singsong voice, "stop socializing and start doing some actual work."

His full lips break into a smile. "You're one to talk, Alis. Okay, Careers, time to get to work. Little Allie here thinks we should, and who are we to object to her, eh?" Cedric says, laughing.

I feel a twinge of annoyance; he seems to have taken the leader spot, and I hate being told what to do. But Cedric is a fairly likable person, and I know that he'll be capable of leading us. It's just that I know I'll be more capable.

I'll have it fixed later. Nobody ever denies me what I want.

And I have my spot as the co-leader at the end of the day, sharing the responsibility with Cedric. I like the arrangement just fine, we can switch off if one of us gets tired, and if one of us gets picked off earlier in the games, we'll have the other one.

It turns out that I'm efficient in everything except naming edible foods. Admittedly, I've never been anything close to a master chef, and can't do anything close to cooking (I've burned water before, trust me). My mother doesn't think it's very feminine of me, but I don't really care. I'll just do all the bossing around if I ever get a husband.

Which I won't, because this _is_ the Hunger Games—the fight to the death.

I'm sure I'll have loads of fun in the arena.


End file.
